Mr. Hosea Biglow to the Editor of the Atlantic Monthly

DEAR SIR,—Your letter come to han’,
Requestin’ me to please be funny;
But I a’n’t made upon a plan
Thet knows wut ’s comin’, gall or honey:
Ther’ ’s times the world doos look so queer,
Odd fancies come afore I call ’em ;
An’ then agin, for half a year,
No preacher ’thout a call ’s more solemn.
You ’re ’n want o’ sunthin’ light an’ cute,
Rattlin’ an’ shrewd an’ kin’ o’ jingleish,
An’ wish, pervadin' it ’ould suit,
I ’d take an’ citify my English.
I ken write long-tailed, ef I please,—
But when I ’m jokin’, no, I thankee ;
Then, ’fore I know it, my idees
Run helter-skelter into Yankee.
Sence I begun to scribble rhyme,
I tell ye wut, I ha n’t ben foolin’ ;
The parson’s books, life, death, an’ time
Hev took some trouble with my schoolin’;
Nor th’ airth don’t git put out with me,
Thet love her ’z though she wuz a woman;
Why, th’ a’n’t a bird upon the tree
But half forgives my bein’ human.
An’ yit I love th’ unhighschooled way
Ol’ farmers hed when I wuz younger;
Their talk wuz meatier, an’ ’ould stay,
While book-froth seems to whet your hunger,
For puttin’ in a downright lick
’Twixt Humbug’s eyes, ther’ ’s few can match it,
An’ then it helves my thoughts ez slick
Ez stret-grained hickory doos a hatchet.
But when I can't, I can’t, thet ’s all,
For Natur’ won’t put up with gullin’;
Idees you hev to shove an’ haul
Like a druv pig a’n’t wuth a mullein ;
Live thoughts a’n’t sent for; thru all rifts
O’ sense they pour an’ resh ye onwards,
Like rivers when south-lyin’ drifts
Feel thet the airth is wheelin’ sunwards.
Time wuz, the rhymes come crowdin’ thick
Ez office-seekers arter ’lection,
An’ into ary place ’ould stick
Without no bother nor objection ;
But sence the war my thoughts hang back
Ez though I wanted to enlist ’em,
An’ substitutes, — wal, they don’t lack,
But then they ’ll slope afore you ’ve mist ’em.
Nothin’ don’t seem like wut it wuz ;
I can’t see wut there is to hinder,
An’ yit my brains jes’ go buzz, buzz,
Like bumblebees agin a winder ;
’Fore these times come, in all airth’s row,
Ther’ wuz one quiet place, my head in,
Where I could hide an’ think, — but now
It ’s all one teeter, hopin’, dreadin’.
Where ’s Peace? I start, some clear-blown night,
When gaunt stone walls grow numb an’ number,
An’, creakin’ 'cross the snow-crust white,
Walk the col’ starlight into summer ;
Up grows the moon, an’ swell by swell
Thru the pale pasturs silvers dimmer
Than the last smile thet strives to tell
O' love gone heavenward in its shimmer.
I hev ben gladder o’ sech things
Than cocks o’ spring or bees o’ clover,
They filled my heart with livin’ springs,
But now they seem to freeze ’em over ;
Sights innercent ez babes on knee,
Peaceful ez eyes o’ pastur’d cattle,
Jes’ coz they be so, seem to me
To rile me more with thoughts o’ battle.
In-doors an’ out by spells I try ;
Ma’am Natur’ keeps her spin-wheel goin’,
But leaves my natur’ stiff an’ dry
Ez fiel’s o’ clover arter mowin’ ;
An her jes’ keepin’ on the same,
Calmer than clock-work, an’ not carin’,
An' findin’ nary thing to blame,
Is wus than ef she took to swearin’.
Snow-flakes come whisperin’ on the pane
The charm makes blazin’ logs so pleasant,
But I can’t hark to wut they ’re say’n’,
With Grant or Sherman ollers present;
The chimbleys shudder in the gale,
Thet lulls, then sttddin takes to flappin’
Like a shot hawk, but all ’s ez stale
To me ez so much sperit-rappin’.
Under the yaller-pines I house,
When sunshine makes ’em all sweet-scented,
An’ hear among their furry boughs
The baskin’ west-wind purr contented, —
While ’way o’erhead, ez sweet an' low
Ez distant bells thet ring for meetin’,
The wedged wil’ geese their bugles blow,
Further an’ further South retreatin’.
Or up the slippery knob I strain
An’ see a hunderd hills like islan’s
Lift their blue woods in broken chain
Out o’ the sea o’ snowy silence ;
The farm-smokes, sweetes’ sight on airth,
Slow thru the winter air a-shrinkin’,
Seem kin’ o’ sad, an’ roun’ the hearth
Of empty places set me thinkin’.
Beaver roars hoarse with meltin’ snows,
An’ rattles di’mon’s from his granite ;
Time wuz, he snatched away my prose,
An’ into psalms or satires ran it;
But he, nor all the rest thet once
Started my blood to country-dances,
Can’t set me goin’ more ’n a dunce
Thet ha'n't no use for dreams an’ fancies.
Rat-tat-tat-tattle thru the street
I hear the drummers makin’ riot,
An’ I set thinkin’ o’ the feet
Thet follered once an’ now are quiet,—
White feet ez snowdrops innercent,
Thet never knowed the paths o’ Satan,
Whose comin’ step ther’ ’s ears thet won't,
No, not lifelong, leave off awaitin’.
Why, ha’n’t I held ’em on my knee ?
Did n’t I love to see ’em growin’,
Three likely lads ez wal could be,
Handsome an’ brave an’ not tu knowin’ ?
I set an’ look into the blaze
Whose natur’, jes’ like their’n, keeps climbin’,
Ez long ’z it lives, in shinin’ ways,
An’ half despise myself for rhymin’.
Wut ’s words to them whose faith an’ truth
On War’s red techstone rang true metal,
Who ventered life an’ love an' youth
For the gret prize o’ death in battle?
To him who, deadly hurt, agen
Flashed on afore the charge’s thunder,
Tippin’ with fire the bolt of men
Thet rived the Rebel line asunder?
’T a’n’t right to hev the young go fust,
All throbbin’ full o’ gifts an’ graces,
Leavin’ life’s paupers dry ez dust
To try an’ make b'lieve fill their places :
Nothin’ but tells us wut we miss,
Ther’ ’s gaps our lives can’t never fay in,
An’ thet world seems so fur from this
Lef’ for us loafers to grow gray in!
My eyes cloud up for rain ; my mouth
Will take to twitchin’ roun’ the corners ;
I pity mothers, tu, down South,
For all they sot among the scorners :
I ’d sooner take my chance to stan’
At Jedgment where your meanest slave is,
Than at God’s bar hol’ up a han’
Ez drippin’ red ez your’n, Jeff Davis!
Come, Peace! not like a mourner bowed
For honor lost an’ dear ones wasted,
But proud, to meet a people proud,
With eyes thet tell o’ triumph tasted !
Come, with han’ grippin’ on the hilt,
An’ step thet proves ye Victory’s daughter!
Longin’ for you, our sperits wilt
Like shipwrecked men’s on raf’s for water!
Come, while our country feels the lift
Of a gret instinct shoutin’ forwards,
An’ knows thet freedom a’n’t a gift
Thet tarries long in hans’ o’ cowards !
Come, sech ez mothers prayed for, when
They kissed their cross with lips thet quivered,
An’ bring fair wages for brave men,
A nation saved, a race delivered!
J. R. Lowell.